


Midday, Midnight

by aryastark_valarmorghulis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1970s, Canon Compliant, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M, Marauders' Era, POV Remus Lupin, Pining, Post-Sirius Black's Prank on Severus Snape, Summer Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-21
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-10-10 07:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17421413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aryastark_valarmorghulis/pseuds/aryastark_valarmorghulis
Summary: During the summer of 1976, between fifth and sixth year at Hogwarts (and after The Prank), Remus goes outside the Lupin's cottage and he finds a big, black dog in his garden...





	Midday, Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> The biggest thank you to goes to my beta acaseofthehiccups for the thoughtful, invaluable advice, to museinabsentia for the precious help, and of course to the [Remus Lupin Fest](https://remuslupinfest.tumblr.com/) mods!  
> Warnings: consensual kissing between sixteen years old boys and mild swearing.

The little village of Laswyn didn't have a lot to offer, entertainment-wise: the town centre was a tiny, sleepy square that hosted an elementary school – now closed – a medieval church with a magical graveyard in the back garden, a pub Remus wasn't allowed to enter, and a little grocery store that, as his mother complained, still sold World War II rations. Not a movie theatre, a record shop, or even a bookshop, the latter much to Remus' dismay.

Laswyn was a scattering of old red brick cottages sprinkling the gently sloping hills, the main road that led to Ludlow travelled more frequently by cows than cars. Remoteness had its perks, though. From the backyard of his house, a winding path led to a little creek. The rhythmic flow of the water and the birds chirping were a sanctuary of tranquillity, the perfect respite from the hustle and bustle of Hogwarts' everyday life. For the days when his legs were still bruised and tired from the moon, or when he wanted to remain within shouting distance from his mum, he found a perfect spot to ensconce himself only a few yards from home and come out of hiding just as easily.

A lonely, dilapidated wall standing just outside the rotten fence that led to their cottage, probably a relic of an old collapsed barn, concealed him from Collfryn road – not that it was busy – and from prying eyes.

Two weeks ago Remus had borrowed his dad's magic Polaroid and took pictures of his favourite of all his hiding spots – under the biggest of the hawthorn trees that dotted the meadows behind the wall, its gnarled roots sprouted into a rather comfortable seat – to send to his friends. Peter answered a day later, asking if he already finished all their homework under that tree and if he could attach the Transfiguration essay in the next letter. A week after Wormtail, James' owl planed on Remus' breakfast, his letter making him spray tea from his nostrils: Prongs suggested a wank en plein air to him.

Sirius never answered. Not that Remus was upset, but it has been almost a month since they returned from Hogwarts, and that Sirius hadn't bothered to write yet stung a little, especially after their increased closeness following up the Snape-avoided-debacle. Of course, James always appended Sirius' greetings in his letters and boasted about their Quidditch training and their hilariously awkward attempts to flirt with the Muggle girls vacationing in the Cotswolds, dulling Remus' apprehensive mulling after the news of the great escape from Grimmauld Place, and at the same time raising his already distressing levels of pining.

Not that he was sighing for Sirius like a common, helpless lovesick Cathy Earnshaw – nor was he ready to admit he loved that book. Sirius only happened to lurk often in the periphery of his mind, sometimes conjured by the sudden bark of a dog in the distance, by Bowie on the radio singing to run for the shadows, by that Rimbaud verse he was obsessed with: _We aren't serious when we're seventeen_.

Today he wished to tune out Sirius and his unresolved crush like white noise. The midday sun scorched the white, dusty path that led to the woods, and all he could do was wait for it to set and while away the afternoon cross-legged with his back against the hawthorn's coarse trunk, textbooks and pens at his left on a plaid blanket, a book in his lap and a pack of cigarettes nicked from his dad hidden under scrolls of parchment.

Remus only longed to soak in the midday heat, unburden himself of cravings and worries, the honey-sweet smell of sunflowers tickling his nose, the trees line in front of him blurred by the sweltering heat, the rhythmic singing of the cicadas drowned only by the infrequent rumble of invisible cars passing by on the road.

Quite the pastoral idyll – minus the perspiration soaked through his shirt, the way his bare ankles felt sticky with sweat and sunscreen, and his faithless, pessimistic heart circling back to Sirius and suggesting a shortlist of reasons behind his silence.

Maybe Sirius' affectionate hair tugs and elbows brushing in the library and ear whispers and ankles touching under the table were only compensation for his previous thoughtlessness with the whole Snape incident. Maybe Remus hadn't been as careful as he hoped in stealing glances during lessons. Maybe he only imagined a deeper, hidden groundwater flow that didn't exist under the placid, clear watercourse that was their friendship.

Remus scratched the juncture between neck and left shoulder, his sweaty fingertips bumping against two raised, short scar lines, and sighed: he was bored, and boredom always lead him to brood and wallow and, in an embarrassing afternoon last week, to write horrible poetry about unrequited love. He promptly tore up the page, but the sole fact that for at least a minute a poem about Sirius' hands and eyes and skin had existed – and it wasn't even dirty poetry, they were plain and horribly romantic verses – was a testament of his ennui. He blamed Laswyn, of course, its Arcadic landscape, its wet sweltering air that brushed his skin like a caress, since he has never been so pathetic before. But really, there weren't many distractions to entertain himself with: his parents worked most of the day, and even if he tried his best to eke out all the homework, he had only the History of Magic and the Defence essays left, and he had to wait for his dad for the latter, since Lyall had offered to help and lend him some books.

Even his occasional trips to explore the meadows had lost their appeal. They were a good way to pass the time, but some days the implacable muggy air was a tangible burden on his body, like breathing wet hot moisture into his lungs, so he had to wait the later hours of the afternoon for the sun’s rays to decline and soften their cruel spears.

It was one of those days, resulting in damp spots under the armpits of his smelly t-shirts, dirtied up shorts and hair plastered to his forehead, but still, always more preferable than being inside the cottage alone. He returned idly to the book on his lap, an old and heavily underlined Muggle textbook his dad found abandoned in a ghoul-infested school, the cheap, yellow paper almost translucent, the ink a little smudged by the press of his sweaty fingertips.

_It was sultry, and the day had driven out the middle hour;_

_I laid out my relaxed limbs on the middle of the bed._

And then Ovid succeeded to please his mistress Corinna, gracing the reader with vivid details, during the hottest hour of the day in the hottest time of the year. Quite the valiant undertaking, in Remus' opinion and non-existent experience, since in this weather he was finding it a difficult task even to concentrate and read dirty, classy poetry. His interest was, of course, _purely_ academic: midday, just like midnight, was considered not only by wizards but also by ancient Muggles a time filled with magic possibilities, when supernatural events happened at noon-day, like here, the magical epiphany of the beloved woman. Or maybe the bloke was only having an erotic daydream, and Remus was pondering too much a subtext that just wasn't there – quite the counterproductive habit, especially outside of books, especially regarding Sirius, whom he was _not_ thinking about while reading about Ovid taking off Corinna's tunic, and if he was, it was only because he heard a familiar sounding bark not too far off. Actually, quite near.

Remus lifted his head and a big black dog appeared, strolling through the crunching yellow grass. It was ironic or it was heatstroke, or Ovid was right about supernatural encounters at noon, or it was the Grim coming to relieve him of his mundane worries – or Sirius was actually there.

Remus blinked. Still there. An unconditioned reflex spurred him to his feet as the dog – no, Padfoot – was running towards him, one, two, three strides, one, two, three heartbeats and then a drooling tongue was licking his palms, a wagging tail greeting him happily.

He was struck, like church-bells were tolling inside his brain, dinging _Sirius Sirius Sirius_.

Remus stood motionless, his mind still fiddling with the heatstroke hallucination possibility, until Padfoot started to whine and headbutt his stomach rather forcefully, pushing his back against the truck. “You can-” he started, and then looked right and left, first to check if a stag and a rat were approaching too, playing the most wonderful prank; and then to verify that no one was in sight. “You can change, nobody can see us there.”

“Hallo, Moony.”

Remus stared. Sirius was dressed in an hilarious approximation of Muggle clothing, with a simple white shirt, pinstriped trousers with suspenders, and red shoes – clearly not an hallucinatory fantasy, then. Usually, he didn't picture Sirius wearing such ridiculous clothes, or many clothes at all.

“Aren't you happy to see me?” Sirius had the nerve to pout and look disappointed by Remus’ lack of reaction.

“What the _hell_?” spluttered Remus. “Did someth-”

“Nothing happened!” Sirius cut him off, and then huffed, glancing down at his canvas shoes. “I've never been better, I swear! I know you haven't heard from me for almost a month, I _know_ , I'm sorry.”

Sirius shrugged, the same careless gesture he did every time he bothered to acknowledge his mistakes, like he was apologising because he was expected to, not out of genuine repentance. Not that he apologised often in the first place, but he had the morning after the Snape debacle and that time he’d wanted to hex Mulciber but hit Peter by mistake, so by now Remus could recognise all of Sirius’ mannerisms of contrived contrite.

“I didn't know what to write and I knew Prongs was keeping you and Wormtail updated, so...”

“Wait, wait - do the Potters know you're here...?” The sudden dread that Sirius had gone out on a whim and he was going to lead an alarmed Mr. and Mrs. Potter on a goose chase across the country struck Remus like a well-aimed spell.

Sirius sighed and fidgeted with one of his suspenders. _Oh, Merlin. “_ We need to-”

“Look. You don't have to worry, alright? They were supposed to go on holiday in Calais this week, remember? James insisted I go with them, but I didn't want to- well, to intrude more than I already had, so I asked my uncle Alphard if I could stay with him in Glasgow for a few days. He said yes and Euphemia had even wanted to write to him, so they think I'm with him, only Uncle Alphard is a little, er- ditzy, so we didn't exactly discuss dates and when I was at the Exmoor train station I decided to... take a detour. I wanted to see you.”

Remus felt his cheek flush – fault of the midday heat, or of that Ovid poem, or of the sight of Sirius squinting at him in the scorching white sunlight, looking, for once in his life, ridiculously dressed and quite out of place in the placid, sleepy, uneventful Welsh countryside. “Quite the detour, from Glasgow to Laswyn,” he commented, harbouring the faint, silly hope that Sirius would answer something very not-Sirius-like, something on the line of _I missed you, Moony, I was suffering for you in silence._

Sirius only shrugged. “It was pretty easy, I got off at Ludlow, found a dead alley to change into Padfoot and then followed the road signs.”

Remus shook his head. “You know, if you had bothered to warn me that you were coming, I'd have informed you that there is a bus from Ludlow to Laswyn, and I would have waited for you at the station... you must have walked for more than two hours,” he sighed, throwing an critical look at Sirius, who looked as handsome as ever, even if a little sweaty.

“But I would have lost the element of surprise,” reasoned Sirius. “And I wasn't so sure you'd wanted me to come here,” he added, grey eyes fixed on the knotty roots writhing on the ground, mere feet from where they stood. Sirius' quest for reassurance that their friendship escaped unscathed from the Snape-avoided-debacle was still underway, no matter how many times Remus has repeated it and behaved like it was.

 _Well, you would have known if you had bothered to write, wouldn't you?_ he thought, but he saw the almost troubled frown on Sirius' brow and relented like _he_ was the one who kept silent for almost a month and then sprang up unannounced. The helplessness of resenting him was one of the many mysterious spells Sirius could cast.

“I'm aware you can't help it, but don't be silly, of course I'm glad to see you,” he answered, as dryly as he could manage.

And then, quite predictably if one drew charts and diagrams of Sirius' modus operandi in the last months of school – and Remus had, thoroughly – they were hugging, Sirius' hands curled around Remus' shoulders, a warm cheek against his left ear, a faint tang of sweat and dog fur itching his nose, which shouldn't be tantalizing, but somehow it was.

Nothing more than a friendly hug, equipped with a pat on his back, but enough to ignite the Madeleine effect of remembering all of Sirius' affectionate mannerisms, and how much Remus missed him, and how much he thought about him every day without even meaning to, and at night, oh, at night...

They parted, Sirius' grin as radiant and sudden as sun rays peeking from a cloudy sky, and Remus felt his own clammy hands clenching and, up close, he yearned to kiss the curved shadow of long eyelashes on flushed cheeks, the straight nose line that he itched to trace with his fingertips, the sharp jawline he could picture with his eyes closed. Suddenly, it was like on the empty Hogwarts Express carriage last month, all closeness and warmth, no words; and at the same time nothing like it, all birds chirping and stillness and seclusion.

So Remus, concealing the drumming in his chest, averted his eyes and gestured for the house. “Come on, you must be dead tired from all that walking. Let's go in and I'll make lunch while you shower, all right?” he said, quite impressed with how conversational he managed to sound.

Sirius nodded with an enthusiasm more suited for an invitation to the most exquisite mansion in the whole of Wales.

The Lupin’s cottage was the opposite of an exquisite mansion.

When they crossed the threshold, Remus exhaled a relieved breath as their eyes, adjusting from the outside light to the shadowy, narrow corridor, couldn't glimpse the spots of mould peeping from the peeling wallpaper. He knew he shouldn't be ashamed that his family wasn't rich but he couldn't help the stab of embarrassment when they passed beside the latched steel door that led downstairs, to the former wine cellar – now wolf cellar – and when the wooden stairs protested loudly at almost every step.

When they reached his bedroom in the attic, Sirius seemed out of place, an oddly misplaced young aristocrat visiting a peasant's house, almost too tall for the sloping ceiling of the garret, too refined for that cramped room with the dull floral curtains, the light bulb hanging from the ceiling without a chandelier, the cheap Formica shelves stuffed with old toys his mother refused to put away.

Sirius flung himself on the bed, oblivious to Remus' thoughts, the mattress creaking under the spread of his long limbs. The sight of him, shoes promptly discarded on the linoleum flooring, leafing through the books left on the bedside cabinet, was a perturbation in Remus' usually halcyon, quiet summer days.

Luckily Sirius was too hilariously dressed to elicit more unsettling reactions, but he wouldn't be for much longer: after handing him fresh towels, one of his newest shirts, and a pair of jeans, Remus fled downstairs, attempting but failing not to think about Sirius showering in his bathroom and trying to phrase in his mind a sensible explanation for his mother. _Sirius showed up here without notice because he's like that, but do you remember he just ran away from home? So we have to keep him for the weekend, can we, mum?_ He tried twice to ring Hope at the post office, but the line was always busy and he gave up. His dad was in Dartmoor for an infestation of Red Caps, so unavailable for now.

Remus took yesterday's dinner leftovers - boiled potatoes with cabbage - out of the humming refrigerator and put them on a pan, lighting the gas stove with one of his mum's lighters. He considered the open kitchen-living-dining room space, wondering what piece of furniture – all old and none matching – screamed more 'working class': the battered armchairs with their cracked leather and white stuffing coming out, the dented pine table that rocked when you leaned on it, the gray curtains hung limp like sad flowers wilting for the heat, the four mismatched chairs, the scratched wooden larder cupboard. Rationally, he knew he was being silly, so he tried to swallow the thoughts that the Potters, and the Blacks, of course, must have antique and bespoke furniture, and one of their broom closets was larger than the room he was in. Remus bet Grimmauld Place had at least three parlours, a library and more than one study, but it also had the Blacks living in it, so maybe the little cottage's only advantage was being Black-free - bad Blacks of course - and, for the moment, parent-free as well.

A long, banging whistle – the pipes had been turned off – prompted him to rush to his mother's vinyl player, next to the brown armchair, and put on the first record he found, the gentle piano notes filling the narrowing space between Remus, pacing in the cluttered living room, and the thoughts of Sirius drying himself upstairs.

It must be one of the downsides of being sixteen, being troubled by Sirius, or one of the many downsides of being Remus Lupin.

Sometimes, lying awake at night, he wondered if the prickle in his chest would mellow with time, reduced to a fond memory every time he'd remember the warm imprint of Sirius' fingers curling on his shoulder; or if it would always plague him, that Sirius was the first person to stir in him a different flavour of tenderness every time he brought his notes, written in neat calligraphy, while Remus lay useless on the hospital wing, to kindle sparks of lust whenever he undressed, without an ounce of self-consciousness, in their dorm.

Thank Merlin Sirius looked quite funny when he climbed downstairs, too-short jeans baring his ankles, the fabric of Remus' favourite green shirt stretched on the shoulders and dotted with droplets trickling from his damp hair.

“I like your house, Moony,” he said, looking around in the room. Sirius examined the insides of the fridge and the pantry and admired the view outside the window – admittedly, quite pleasant – until his attention was caught by the moving pictures laid on a little shelf over the telly.

“I knew you'd find something to take the piss out of me with.” Remus busied himself with putting the heated food on a plate, the tips of his ears already feeling warm. “Lunch is ready when you're done.”

“Aw, little Moony! Look how cute you were, and with a stuffed dog too!”

Remus took two glasses and filled them with tap water, sure that, inexplicably, the flush was spreading to his cheeks and neck. He knew he was nothing more than a little red toothless thing in the picture Sirius was watching, and that he's known him since they were eleven years old boys. It was weirdly intimate, obtrusive even, how Sirius had been a huge but absent shadow for a month and now he pounced on Remus, so vivid and effervescent, rummaging through the house and watching his childhood pictures. He wondered if James felt the same increase of brightness when Sirius showed up at the Potters, but maybe for James, being a luminous sun himself, sharing space with another star didn't make such a difference.

Sirius sat on the chair and attacked the potatoes with the same enthusiasm he reserved for Hogwarts' banquets and cleaned his plate within minutes.

Remus sat with him, settling on nibbling a bit of bread, hoping that his stomach wouldn't rumble too loudly.

“I'm not hungry right now, I had a late breakfast,” he lied easily. Hope would receive her pay-check from the post office at the end of the month, but that was still a few days away and his dad - well, Lyall was more or less adequately paid every time he had something going on, which sometimes was often and sometimes was seldom. Remus felt a pang of guilt for his mother, who would return from work this afternoon to find not one, but two ravenous teenagers to feed.

After clearing the table, Sirius insisted on helping to wash the dishes with way too much enthusiasm, so Remus handed him a rag and filled the sink with warm water.

“... so Prongs _swears_ that if we fly low enough no one will see us, because there's no Muggles around, and I believe him, all right? And then of course, obviously, predictably, there's this group of Dutch or something tourists visiting that damned woods, because it's got an ancient Roman villa nearby – that you'd love, by the way – whose existence was totally forgotten by the tosser-”

Remus kept throwing glances at him, forearms deep in soapy warm water, and felt a pang of fondness for this boy who had probably never done a chore in sixteen years, but there he was, so tall but with his head hung low, drying each plate slowly and clumsily, afraid of dropping them.

Remus observed him like he did sometimes during lessons, like a cautious but expert thief, stealing details to come back to late at night, in the darkness of his bedroom, with the sheets pulled down because of the heat: bluish veins on strong hands, long hair shadowing stormy gray eyes, sweat pooled in the hollow of a pale throat.

Alone with Sirius, Remus felt hyper-aware of having a body in a way that he usually attempted to forget. His body was an inconvenient, scarred envelope that revolted against him once a month and sometimes creaked like an old man's. But near Sirius, physicality and mind – heart, if he'd ever allow himself to be that soppy, or soul, if he wanted to get metaphysical – were one and the same, and together, they both _wanted._

They washed and dried all the dishes and glasses, placed the cutlery back in its drawer and then Remus swept away the crumbs under Sirius' curious scrutiny, sweaty palms gripping the broomstick tightly, feeling quite ridiculous until Sirius broke the silence and joked, “Did you learn how to fly with that? I can recognize your graceful flying style, all those weird jerky movem-” Remus started to chase him and hit him in the shins with the bristles, and they were suddenly careless kids again, embarrassment dissolving in laughter.

“So what do you usually do in the afternoon?” asked Sirius, once the broom was back hanging from its hook on the wall. Sirius started to pace around the room, first rummaging through his mum’s records collection, then poking the black screen of the telly and studying a framed picture of his parents, young and laughing, cutting their wedding cake.

Remus just shrugged. “Er- not much to do, actually.”

In the frenzy of Sirius' sudden apparition, he hadn't planned what to do and how to entertain him – not that his traitorous mind didn't conjure up a lot of pretty explicit ideas about entertaining Sirius, ideas that he valiantly tried to ignore.

“Well, let me think... there's a magic cemetery in the village with the grave of Hesper Starkey and a lot of strange ancient runes carvings, and... er, we could get ice-cream or take a walk-”

“But what do you usually do?” Sirius interrupted, fingers drumming on the kitchen table. “I mean, what would you have done if I hadn't come?”

“I told you, there's not much to do here...” Remus explained, gesturing at the window, green hills dotted with bale of hays unfurling around the house. “I just sit under my tree and read something or do homework, or nap... sometimes I go to the pond if it isn't too hot-”

“Let's do that, then! I haven't started homework at all yet!” He said, with the same enthusiasm he reserved for Remus' most brilliant ideas, like when he’d hexed Rosier to talk in rhymes for three days by tweaking a simple grammar check spell. Remus sighed: Sirius was indulging him.

He had been in the habit of doing so in the last couple of months at school, spending time in the library with him and reviewing notes before N.E.W.T.S even if he already knew all the coursework perfectly. Sometimes Sirius lent himself to boring _Moony-like_ activities – Pete's words – like studying, probably because he reckoned he needed to behave around Remus after the Snape incident, which was, of course, very silly. Since Remus had forgiven him the morning after, this show of penance was unnecessary: he didn't need to subject himself to homework only to please Remus, for Merlin's sake. “ _Really,_ ” deadpanned Remus, crossing his arms.

Sirius' head, bowed to examine the telephone, snapped up, his index finger stopping midway on his clockwise rotation. “Me and Prongs never start homework this early, you know us! And, well, Moony,” he put the handset back on the cradle and straightened up, a cold edge in his tone picked up by Remus at once, “as you might have noticed, I've had quite an eventful summer so far.”

 _I would have noticed if you had bothered to write to me instead of using James as a proxy, you self-centred tosser._ Remus bit his own tongue and took a conciliatory step towards Sirius, still standing near the wall where the phone was mounted: he _had_ had an eventful summer, after all.

“That's not at all what I meant,” he explained. “I just didn't think you really wanted to do homework. You and Prongs are always off flying or brewing potions or chatting up girls, so I didn't want to bore you with school stuff or books.”

“ _Oh._ ” Sirius shook his head and pushed his hair behind his ears, a faint splotch of pink colouring his cheeks that reminded Remus how rare and amusing was to see Sirius caught off his feet. “I don't mind at all... I told you, I want to do what you usually do, without bothering you further.”

“Sirius,” Remus called, voice sounding softer than he intended. “You're not bothering me. You surprised me, yes, but it's good to see you.”

Sirius tore away from the wall and started to pace in the little circular space between the two armchairs and the kitchen table, socked feet silent on the worn, threadbare carpet. “Yes, but when your parents... Look, I'll stay until they come back and then I'll turn into Padfoot and find a hiding place to spend the night-”

“Oh, please, don't be daft, it really doesn't suit you.” Remus stepped forward and put both his hands on Sirius' shoulders, only for a moment, because initiating affection with Sirius caused a stain of embarrassment to blossom out on his chest, and also because he dreaded betraying himself. He did manage to stop Sirius' pacing and hold his attention, though. “Do you really think that I - or my parents - would leave you to sleep outside like a... dog? Oh, don't laugh- I'm _serious.”_

They both chuckled at the old, by now worn-out joke until they didn't anymore, Sirius' mouth smiling fondly, dimples in his flushed cheeks, the warm air between them suddenly charged like the moment of all clear before casting a spell, and how long could a moment stretch out before turning from companionable silence to meaningful pause? Well, apparently until Sirius patted Remus' arm in a peculiar James-like manner and said, “So, can I borrow some parchment and ink?”

They went outside juggling in their arms a pile of assorted books, an Ancient Runes dictionary, Remus' Herbology jotter, a bottle of lemonade, two blankets, sunscreen, four rolls of parchment, Lyall’s cigarettes hidden in Sirius' jeans pocket and, to Sirius' amusements, a few ballpoint pens and pencils.

Remus smiled as Sirius applied sunscreen to his face and arms, the vain tosser, as they arranged themselves, back against the hawthorn's trunk, legs folded, knees touching, books and pens spread on the blankets. It seemed like another Sunday afternoon at Hogwarts.

“We can go take a walk later,” Remus offered, while writing the timeline of all the major Witch Trials occurred between 1560 and 1630. “If you're bored.”

“Moony, you do know I actually like to read, don't you?” Sirius replied, without tearing his eyes away from the dictionary, his index finger skimming along the page.

“I do. You made me promise not to tell anyone you like Percival Pratt's _Ballad of the Sphinx_ ,” Remus reminded him gleefully. Sirius stuck his tongue out at him and for a long while the only sound besides the birds and the cicadas were papers turning, fingers on parchment, pens clicking, the flick of a lighter, an exhale of smoky breath, a few dates and words muttered under their breath.

Remus allowed himself to steal glances again: fingers tapping on mouth, right hand flying over parchment, black hair swaying in the warm breeze. It was nice, the two of them together, not saying much, not doing anything special, just sitting under a tree, sharing the occasional fag, enjoying a quiet summer afternoon and each other's company.

“Hey, Moony,” Sirius nudged him with his shoulder. “Have you read this one?”

He was holding a thick, dog eared, spine broken book, the cover ripped off so Remus didn't recognize it – it must be one of the books his dad rescued from the ghoul-infested school.

“Already done with the translation?” Not surprising in the slightest, since Sirius was brilliant at Ancient Runes, as at anything else.

“Please, it was stuff for third-years,” he scoffed, and then he had to place the book in Remus' lap over the parchment he was writing on, hooking his chin on the juncture between Remus' shoulder and neck, because that's who Sirius was, and everytime he did these mindless displays of friendship, Remus could only hope he wouldn't notice the arrhythmical thumping of his heart. Long hair tickled his cheek, but Remus remained still, breathing carefully, fearing he smelled of sweat.

“It's simple but it says it all, listen,” Sirius explained, and then started to read out loud, with his posh, clear diction, slowly drawing out every word.

“The moon and the Pleiades have set,

it is midnight,

and the time is passing

but I sleep alone.”

Remus nodded, secretly impressed with his own stoicism. “I like it. Much better than _Ballad of the Sphinx_.” _Especially read by you._

Sirius only hummed and neither of them moved.

Remus held still as if he had been petrified, not wanting to dislodge Sirius from his shoulder and not daring to turn his face because their cheeks were brushing already. Sirius held still, who even knew why, whether because he took pleasure in torturing Remus, or if because this closeness meant nothing but easy friendship, or perhaps because it meant  _something_ for him, too-

The rumble of a car startled them both and Sirius jumped to his feet in a second, as a child caught with his hands in a cream bowl. “Your mother?”

Remus' wristwatch read half past five. “I promise, she's very nice.”

They left everything under the tree and went back inside.

“Mum?” Remus called her from the dingy corridor, Sirius tailing him.

“Yes, yes, I'm here-”

To her credit, Hope only blinked, then arched an eyebrow and smiled her kind smile. Remus was felt a rush of love for her, for taking so many things in stride - the magic, the lycanthropy, the constant moving around, the secrecy that came along with magic, his father's odd jobs.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in! How are you, Sirius?” she said, tossing her old canvas purse on the floor.

“Mrs Lupin,” Sirius stepped in and actually bowed his head and held out a hand. Remus stifled a laugh and admired how his mum only raised the corners of her mouth, eyes crinkling with mirth, and shook Sirius' hand politely.

“I'm so sorry to show up unannounced,” he stammered, “I wouldn't want to impose-”

Thank Merlin his mum took pity of him. “Call me Hope. And don't worry about it, dear, we're happy to have you as our guest. Hope you like corned beef and carrots for dinner.” _Because that's all we have,_ Remus completed in his mind.

“Thank you, Mrs Lupin, I love it,” answered Sirius and then, as obvious as he could ever be, “I'll go gather the things we left under the tree, excuse me,” and he bolted out of the room. Remus tried to shoot him a glance that conveyed well the warning ' _if you run away I will have to kill you'._

His mother fixed him with a look, and Remus started to think, very, very quickly.

“Do the Potters know he's here?”

“The Potters are in France on holiday, mum.” So far, the truth. “He was supposed to go stay with his uncle in Glasgow,” the truth again, but now it was the moment to slip in a little half-lie, otherwise his mum would want to alert both the Potters and Alphard Black, but she wouldn’t have any way of contacting them: none of them owned a telephone, the Lupin's owl was travelling with his father, and most of all Remus didn’t want to add to the list of things his mum was stressed about.

“He, er, changed his mind and came here, but he sent all of them an owl this morning.” Technically, Sirius only notified Prongs through their two-way mirror, but it was very _possible_ that James had told his parents, and Alphard Black- well, according to Sirius, Alphard Black wasn't even expecting to see his nephew today. “Oh, did dad call you? I haven’t had any owl from him,” Remus went on.

His mum sighed and reached out to tousle his messy hair with her hand.

“Don't worry, your dad called me at work this afternoon, he'll be back the day after tomorrow. Lots of Red Caps in Dartmoor, apparently.” She went to the stove to retrieve the lighter and lit up her cigarette. “What about  _his_ parents?” she asked.

Remus didn't have to lie for this one. “I told you, mum, they disowned him, they don't want him anymore.”

Hope shook her head, the fringe of blond-gray hair swaying slightly around her rounded glasses. “Poor boy looks rather scared for a runaway rebel child, doesn't he? Go retrieve him before he gets lost. God knows how wizards are helpless when they can't use their drumsticks.”

Remus nodded. “He's not scared of you, though,” he said. “He's only not used to parents who aren't horrible.”

Hope laughed, waving the smoke out of her eyes with her pink nailed hand, laugh lines crinkling at the corners of her mouth and eyes.

“What a compliment, being not horrible.” The little gold star at her neck glinted in the orangey late afternoon light.

Remus smiled too. He knew was going to have similar lines, soon. “You're so _not_ horrible, mum.”

“That's nice to hear, darling. Maybe I won't even embarrass you by bringing out your old baby pictures. Think you two can handle carrots and potatoes while I shower?”

Remus groaned at the mention of baby pictures and went outside to call Sirius, who was waiting for him outside the front door, books and blankets gathered on the floor. “Stop acting like a whipped dog and come back in, we have vegetables to chop.”

“Moony, remember that I'm the only one entitled to make dog jokes,” Sirius replied, sounding less nervous and more himself than before. “And I don't know a thing about chopping vegetables, so you'll have to teach me.”

Remus put Sirius in charge of peeling the carrots, afraid he'd stab himself if he had to peel the potatoes, and watched him lovingly as he tried and failed to chop them into equally sized squared sticks. When his mother came back into the kitchen to cook the meat, Sirius looked at her sheepishly – he hadn't been around many grown-up Muggles and, wearing faded navy pants and an old floral shirt with the sleeves rolled up, she must have looked pretty eccentric to him – but Hope ignored the mangled carrots and only said, “Thank you both. Why don't you set the table and turn on the telly?”

He taught Sirius how to turn on and off the telly and how to switch channels. He watched the news for a few minutes, perched on the battered leather armchair, fascinated with a report of Queen Elizabeth's visit to the United States. “ _That_ 's the Queen? Quite different from old Minchum, isn't she? Maybe she'd know how to deal with Voldemort.”

Remus felt a cold shiver running through his back at that name. His mind hadn't wondered in Voldemort-adjacent territory in the last few days, he hadn’t even read the Prophet since his father wasn't there, and he wished for that day not to be tarnished by the thought of monsters who hated people like his mum or like Lily. _Or like me._

Dinner turned out to be a quiet but relaxed affair.

Sirius complimented Hope more times than necessary for a plate of tinned corned beef, Hope made light-hearted fun of the wizarding world's aversion to technology, Remus rolled his eyes fondly at both until his mother threatened him again with the baby pictures. Sirius tried to win Hope over narrating a censored version of the time Remus helped Peter to write sweet notes with moving drawings of hearts and flowers and steaming teapots to invite a girl he liked to Hogsmeade.

“My little Cyrano,” said Hope, stubbing her post-dinner cigarette in her empty plate.

“It's a Muggle book,” Remus explained to Sirius, sprawled in his chair, finally looking comfortable.

“'Course it is,” he grinned. Remus grinned back, then caught his mother watching them, green eyes soft behind the lenses. Embarrassed, he stood up and offered to do the dishes. “Sirius is getting the hang of drying the plates,” he joked.

His mum insisted on washing all herself, but Sirius argued he wanted to help, so they ended up at the sink all three together. Remus was washing, water warm and soapy on his hands, Hope rinsing at the second sink and humming tunelessly, Sirius drying, leaning with his back on the kitchen counter, the wide line of his shoulders straight and alluring in its broadness. Weird, how such a menial and prosaic task could diffuse a lava-flow of contentment in Remus' chest, and he wanted to laugh at himself for having worried earlier about the poor state of the house. Sirius didn't mind, just as he didn't mind that Remus turned into a savage beast once a month, and that was all that mattered: that he was cared for and loved by the two people he was bumping elbows with in the narrow kitchen. In the gentle evening light, the room even looked less ugly, the dented cupboard and the chipped mugs bathed in soft shadows as his mum took them out to make tea.

He met Sirius' gaze over the whistling kettle, eyes soft like the billowing clouds clearing after a storm, and in a rush of domestic bliss, he longed to keep him here all summer. Not for the first time, he fantasized that Sirius hadn't gone to the Potters but to the Lupins instead. It wouldn't have worked, of course, since money was already tight for them, but sometimes wishful thinking and a hint of jealousy couldn't be helped.

Remus usually drank his tea with his mum – and dad, when he happened to be home – in front of the telly, reading or watching his parents channel hop before deciding what to watch until, sometime later, he'd retreat upstairs in his bedroom to read some more on the bed or listen to his music or, as his mum joked, to sulk like every sixteen years old should, once in a while. This evening, though, he tilted his head towards the stairs Sirius quickly nodded, so they bid goodnight to Hope and took their steaming mugs upstairs.

All day Remus had dreaded and longed for the moment they'd be alone in his bedroom, and finally here they were, Sirius cross-legged in the middle of the bed, blowing on his cup, Remus only two steps away but with his back turned, fiddling with the pile of records stacked up on the floor, unsure about what to play. After a brief but frantic skimming through his records – _Light My Fire_ seemed a little heavy-handed and _Don't Go Breaking My Heart_ as well but for different reasons, _Whole Lotta Love_ sounded too much like foreplay even for his non-existent experience, Webern's _Symphony op. 21_ was a tad too pretentious, _Bohemian Rhapsody_ too eccentric – he settled on _Life on Mars,_ placed it on the platter and dropped the needle.

“Hmm, I'm beat, Moony, I woke up at ass o'clock, not to mention the two hours of baking under the sun. Mind if I go under the sheets?” Sirius placed his mug on the night table and then stretched his long legs and arms, twisting on the bed, back arched, and Remus had to avert his eyes, cheeks hot, and sit uselessly on the wobbly plastic folding chair, because it was unthinkable to stay on the bed with Sirius until they were ready to sleep.

He sat plenty of times on Sirius' bed in their dormitory at school, and vice versa, but without Wormtail and Prongs around, the walls of the already narrow room seemed to shrink in on them, the cramped garret suddenly painted with intimate brush strokes, the dim flickering light bringing out Sirius' strong jawline and straight nose, rendering even more striking his sharp-edged features.

“I still have some cigarettes left, but we'll have to wait for my mum to go to bed before smoking...” he said, just for the sake of filling the silence, gaze fixed on his socked feet, shuffling through a tear on the linoleum flooring, so Sirius taking off his jeans was only a disturbing impression of movement in the periphery of his vision. “I don't think she'll enter in my room, not without knocking at least, but, you know. Do you want some, er, … pyjama pants?”

“'s fine, Moony, it's hot in here.” _You don't say._

They chatted like this for a while, Sirius with his long legs splayed under the sheets, pillows propped behind his back, sheets gathered at the waist, hair loose on his shoulders, looking more handsome than in every dream Remus had about having him on his bed. Remus sat on the scratchy linoleum floor, changing records until they heard the familiar creaking of the stairs, meaning that Hope was going to bed and from now on they had to keep quiet.

When Remus switched off the light and stretched his arm to turn on the little dusty lampshade placed on top of a pile of old books, Sirius turned into a chiselled Caravaggio portrait, eyes two pools of darkness, the flickering warm light emphasizing the angular lines of his jaw and cheekbones.

“Moony, did I tell you a snogged a girl last week?”

Remus, already fretting about having to sleep beside him, skipped a few heartbeats. Of course he snogged a girl, and of course he had to bloody say it now.

“Oh, yes, you told me in your latest letter, don't you remember?” He let the words slip out of his throat, because,  _really_? It was inevitable this day would come, and he had tried to brace himself for Sirius discovering girls. He was actually surprised it took him so long, given how last year, both Billie Davis and Megan Parker had invited him to Hogsmeade, and even the popular, smart seventh year Head Girl Atia Fawley had asked him to be her date at the Slug Club Christmas Party. But hypothesizing it in abstract theory was a different burden to bear than hearing a careless comment about kissing girls.

Sirius bounced on the bed, the mattress springs popping, an almost gleeful, challenging smile on his face. “So you _are_ pissed off that I didn't write.”

Remus scoffed and shook his head. Sirius was painting him like an eighteenth-century naïve wide-eyed Austen-ish character, hopelessly waiting for his beloved to write, while the latter was in Bath or London or some other worldly place thoroughly enjoying life.

“I wrote to Pete, twice,” Sirius went on. That  _stung,_ like a stabbing, pinpricking hex in his chest.

“Do you  _want_ me to be pissed off? Because it sure looks like it,” groaned Remus, and then he stood up, slid up the window panel and lit up a cigarette on the third attempt, fingers shaking, from anger or nerves, he couldn't say. He breathed in and out, cool night air caressing his heated cheeks like a balm.

“It's not true that I wrote to Pete, I don't even know why I said it.”

_Because you like to taunt me._

Remus bit the inside of his mouth and exhaled a puff of smoke, sensing more than hearing, like an itch on the back of his neck, Sirius throwing off the sheets and padding behind him. The window was only three steps away from the bed, but Sirius took two, impatient as ever, leaning on the window frame with his elbows, and Remus felt suddenly cornered, wardrobe mere inches on his right, hip bumping on the closet handle, and Sirius' body on his left, radiating warmth. Stepping back seemed too much like withdrawing from an argument, so he stood his ground, heart thudding in his chest, determined to let Sirius speak first, well-knowing he didn't stand long, drawn-out silences.

“I just wanted to be sure you weren't pissed off-”

“Did I ever act like I was angry today? I don't get it. And lower your voice!” Remus cut him off. With the corner of his eye, he saw Sirius rubbing the bridge of his nose and pushing his hair back with his fingers. He heard a sigh, and tilted his head slightly, almost subconsciously, towards him.

“You said you had forgiven me right away, and you act like you do-”

Remus' closed his eyes and exhaled a deep breath, a tiny whimper escaping from his throat. They weren't talking about sodding letters anymore: Sirius had to dredge up the bloody Snape incident to guilt trip  _him_ and instil the doubt he hadn't shown him enough forgiveness. The  _nerve_.

“Look.” Remus stubbed his cigarette on the ruined outside wall, carefully picking and arranging the words in his mind before speaking. “Nothing happened, you said you were sorry – which I chose to believe, even if it's not true – and you swore you wouldn't do it again. _I_ am fine. If _you_ feel guilty-”

“Snape can set himself on fire if that's what you mean,” sputtered Sirius, bitterness in his hushed voice.

“It's not!” hissed Remus.

“It's just- I would never want anything to mess up things. Between you and me,” and then Sirius, being himself and thus capable of breaking into crumbs all of Remus' firm purposes of not looking at him, reached out and touched his elbow. Remus held his stare, defiant, wishing the darkness of the night could cloud what, he was sure, was plainly written of his face.

“I said it's fine and I meant it,” he repeated.

“But I want, I want to be more than fine, Moony. I'm fucking greedy and selfish.” Remus caught the tense, breathless quality of his whisper and in a split second he had a flash of recognition: he saw himself reflected in Sirius' pleading, almost pained face. And if Sirius was a mirror of himself, then-

“I don't understand,” Remus pressed on, half true and half lying, because his rational brain needed to linger and erase any doubt but his thumping heart was rushing ahead, on the verge of crossing the threshold into wild, uncharted territory.

Sirius reached out again, his palm clammy and warm over Remus' wrist. Dizzy, he wanted him to feel his racing pulse, to be hugged again, to be kissed, but Sirius shook his head and huffed a breath, pulling his hand away.

“Yes, you do. It's not like I'm being subtle. If you don't-”

Remus, who had never kissed anyone before, fluttering wings trapped in his rib cage, grasped Sirius' shoulder with shaky fingers, closed his eyes and leaned in. Kissing felt like pressing his lips to the heart of a ripened fruit, all softness at first, but then Sirius' tongue parted his mouth, and the taste, oh, the taste was sweet, too. Their noses bumped and Remus' fingers got stuck in Sirius' long hair, but they pulled away only to share a breathless gasp and they kissed again, and again, clutching each other, the night sky their only witness, stars blinking, the waning moon a glowing smile in the dark.

Later, light off and nestled under the sheets, legs intertwined and toes nudging, Sirius poked at Remus' cheek with his nose.

“I wanted to snog you for _ages_ , Moony.” Somehow Remus could  _hear_ Sirius smiling in the pitch dark because it was impossible to stop smiling himself.

In the darkness, mouth to mouth, he felt more Sirius than himself and if Sirius was him in return, Remus was more himself than he'd ever been before.

“Ages like?” he asked, stroking Sirius' arms, skin warm and firm beneath his fingertips.

“Like four months, Moony, four months!”

He let himself be shaken by a burst of silent laughter, because  _of course_ in Sirius' mind four months were ages. He kissed him again, softly this time: his parent's bedroom was across from his and they had to behave.

“What about you?” Sirius wanted to know.

Had he been less giddy with happiness, less new to this whole new universe of kissing and touching, he could have played coy. “Er, a year and a half? Maybe two?” Since the vague thought of kissing someone turned from gross revulsion to mild curiosity, more like.

“So I am your first crush and your first kiss.”

He could sense the smugness oozing off Sirius' whispers, so he pinched him joyfully on the shoulder. “ _Yes_.”

They laid in silence for a few moments, trading lazy, sleepy kisses.

“Feels nice to be together, Moony.”

They were rather sticky with sweat, quite cramped in the narrow bed, the air foul, the sheets itchy, not to mention sooner or later Remus' body was going to respond to the close quarters.

He smiled against Sirius' mouth. “Very.”


End file.
